I’m forever torn between wanting to nest in the familiar and explore the exciting unknown. When settled into a rooted routine there’s a part that longs for the discomfort of adventure. And when faced with the constant upheaval of travel, a part wishes for nothing more than a return home.
I used to think it was a disconnect needing solved. First I thought staying home would cure it. Then I thought lots of travel would flush it out. Now I accept it’s just an innate quality of being alive. I’m sure anthropologists could explain it’s roots to our past nomadic ways. Biologists could point out all the ways we’re hardwired for such an experience. All I know is how it feels. A light fog of unsettled forever hovering in the background. The slightest desire for the other no matter what. Like a missing appendage, the double yearning forever haunts us, sending unexpected twinges into the phantom limbs of home and exploration.
So it’s no surprise I find myself packing with near total excitement and just the slightest bit melancholy.
In the past few weeks I’ve welcomed our first baby niece into the family, made new friends at a writer’s conference, visited family, traveled the countryside with my Grandpa hearing homesteading histories and dissecting family trees. In the coming weeks I’ll explore parts of the North America I’ve never before seen, turn strangers to friends, learn, discover and experience more than I can possibly predict.
Looking at the piles of gear strewn about I nod. Looks like we’re ready for the next adventure.
Sorting through pictures I smile. Look what fun times we’ve had.
Crouching I rearrange the tool roll. Give thanks for this double yearning, for it is surely a gift of being a rooted wanderer.
Or as Miriam Adeney put it –
“You will never be completely at home again, because part of your heart will always be elsewhere. That is the price you pay for the richness of loving and knowing people in more than one place.”
381 days down. Many to come.
